


kindness to cruelty

by EssayOfThoughts



Category: Forgotten Realms
Genre: Broken Bones, Burns, Captured Drow, Complicated Relationships, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Questionably healthy relationships, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:20:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24483418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts
Summary: If they keep their word then -perhaps- he can convince them he will keep his.
Relationships: Original Drow Character & Original Human Character
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	kindness to cruelty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Narya (Narya_Flame)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/gifts).



> As I said, this is a bit different to what I ended up posting but has similar bones to it. I hope you enjoy it!

**i.  
** “I’m not killing him.” Isie and Imie glare at her for this but Tesythe stands her ground in front of the bound and bruised drow. “No! I broke his hands! Both of them! I tied him up. He’s _harmless._ I am not about to kill a man in cold blood; I don’t care if he’s drow and you have a aeons-long reason to hate his guts.”

“He’s _drow,”_ Imeloch says, his velociraptor Xyra chittering angrily at his heels. “He just _bit_ you. You don’t- Tes, you don’t know what his kind are _like.”_

Well _that’s_ just rude, even if her hand still throbs, and she lifts her chin in angry response. “Fuck you too, Imie,” she says. “It’s not like I grew up near a raiding site for drow. It’s not like humans don’t have their _own_ stories of what drow are like.”

“That’s not what he-”

“Sounded like it, Isie. Fucking sounded like your brother was doing the elvish holier-than-thou you promised you two didn’t do.”

“Drow are dangerous,” Cevelette says, one hand burnishing the golden ring on her left horn. “That’s not- that’s not in question, we’ve been down here enough times and heard enough tales to know what they’re capable of. But Tes was the one to take that one down and Tes was the one to restrain him, so he’s her business now. If she wants to keep him as a prisoner or sell him as a slave or if she wants to keep him and try to rehabilitate him, that’s up to her.”

“Lettie-”

“Don’t ‘Lettie’ me when you’re advocating for cold-blooded murder, Imeloch.” Cevelette’s golden eyes flash dangerously; in the sickly green light cast from the mushrooms her red skin looks more eerie than usual. “People know all about what _my_ kind are like after all, don’t they? And they use that as an excuse to kill us as infants or abandon us on doorsteps. Just because we remind them that somewhere in their family tree someone fucked a fiend.” She spreads her hands. “But you’re friends with me. Don’t play at double standards with me, Imie, you won’t like how it goes.”

Imeloch subsides, his sister’s hand on his arm. 

“If Tes decides she’s sick of him or that it’d be easier to toss him off a cliff then we can do that. But I’m no more down for murdering a prisoner than she is.” She glances down to where Atles has finished patching up her side. “You’re not down for it either, are you, Brunning?”

“Given Tymora is goddess of _chance,_ both in the sense of luck and getting second ones, I am _not.”_ It’s amazing how scathing a smiling halfling can be and Imeloch stops so much as grumbling as Atles dusts off his hands. “That said, I can’t do much more healing today. Let’s see how much further we can get before we set up camp and then we can see about healing his hands if he behaves.”

* * *

**ii.**  
They’re several miles further along when Isalanthe pulls her lizard alongside Tes’. She’s been looking thoughtful the whole time, from when Tes stripped the drow of any remaining weapons and a pouch of what seemed to be spell components, as she’d adjusted his binding, even to when they’d pulled him onto Atles’ lizard behind the small halfling, and Tes is half-expecting a lecture.

“I apologise for my brother,” Isie says, voice soft. “I- yes, you have your own stories of drow. But how they came to be- the queen of their pantheon tried to kill the monarch of ours. Lolth attempted to usurp Corellon and when in punishment she and her supporters were smote down, they decided not to be responsible for what they did and make amends and instead became- they became what you know today as drow.” She gestures with one hand, the other firm on the reins. “Drow are- they are cruel. They believe that power is everything. That kindness is weakness. Tes, there is no way to… to keep that man safely a prisoner or to guide him to good. Drow cannot just be rehabilitated because all of the things we value and will want them to value, they see as inherent weaknesses to be avoided. He will try to escape. He will try to kill us. By giving him a chance to continue his life you are only giving him a chance to end all of ours.”

“If he tries to kill us,” Tes says. “I give you and your brother free rein to respond with as much force as you deem appropriate. If he tries to _escape,_ though, just stop him and get me.”

“He’s a lost cause, Tes.”

“Tymora would disagree.”

“You-” Isie sputters, coughs a laugh and then shrugs. “You’re the least devout of all of us,” she points out, smiling. “But fine. On your own head be it. I’ll keep my brother from killing him if you promise to handle him. Just- drow culture is about strength. You’re going to have to prove to him you have enough to keep him in line.”

Tes laughs at that, bandies her bloodied knuckles and bitten hand in front of her friend’s face. “I beat him once,” she says. “I’m pretty sure I can beat him again. How much of a hardarse do you think I’m going to have to _be?”_

* * *

**iii.**  
The answer is a _lot._

She has to be borderline brutal off the bat. He tries to escape his bonds the first night - thankfully Imie and Isie Trance just like their captive does; by taking it in turns they catch him in the act. He’s her responsibility, though, so they wake her and let her deal with him. There’s a set to his jaw - determined - and she knows he’ll try again; he’d worn the same expression after she’d broken his hands early on in the fight.

 _“Wael,”_ she says - the one piece of Drow she pried out of Isie before going to sleep; _Fool._ Then, in Elvish. “We are more than you. We are stronger than you. We are prepared for you.”

He goes to scoff, chin lifting, lips parting, so without warning she backhands him. Her hand hurts from the force - but he’s hurting more, spitting almost black blood onto the floor of the cavern, teeth stained with it, lip split, kneeling now. 

“Behave,” she says bluntly. “Or no breakfast.”

There’s a snarl to his lips as though he’s about to speak, so she kicks him, sending him sprawling. 

“I thought drow were said to be clever,” she says to Isie where she sits on a rock, sharpening her knives. “That is what your stories say, yes? Cunning creatures using their wits to hurt others.” Isie grins, nods. “This one is not very smart.”

“No,” Isie agrees, casual and comfortable in the language as Tes has yet to become. “He’s as direct as you.”

At _that_ thank fuck, their captive flinches, the insult hitting it’s mark, and Tes leans forward, gripping the drow’s jaw with her fingers. This time, unlike when she was tying him up, he doesn’t try to bite her. 

“Behave,” she says. “Do you understand?”

 _“Igge,”_ he says. Then, in Elvish at least as awkward as her own. “Yes.”

When Tes glances to Isie, the elf nods. “Same words, different languages.”

She doesn’t let her grip gentle but she does stroke her thumb along his jaw, sweeping the trickle of blood from his lip away. “Good boy,” she says.

He stills at that, halfway to a flinch, his gaze ducking and she tightens her grip on him, forces his gaze up. 

“You will be good?” she says. “You will behave?”

 _“Igge,”_ he says again. _“Igge, ilareth.”_

Isie, over his head, nods from her perch on the rock and Tes runs her thumb over his lip once more. It comes away tacky with blood.

“Good boy,” she says. She yawns, stretches. “I’m gonna sleep. If he’s an arse again, kick him and get me.”

* * *

**iv.  
** Come morning he’s where she left him, sat _seiza_ under Isie’s watchful eyes, fists still bound in his lap and eyes closed. 

_Trance,_ Isie mouths. Tes elects to leave him be, instead ambling over to Atles and the warm fire, fixing a portion of breakfast for herself and another for the drow. 

_“Tes,”_ Atles says, deeply sarcastic. “You’re even feeding him? I’m amazed.”

“My prisoner,” she says, picking an extra spoon from the stash Atles always keeps by his cooking gear and gesturing. “My rules.” Atles bats at her hand but he’s smiling and when she reaches for the bowl of berries he nudges the jar of honey her way as well.

She goes and sits in front of the prisoner. In the dark there’s no way for him to tell that by their reckoning it’s morning but she’s heard from Imie and Isie what Reverie is like - he has to know they’re up and about now. She sets one bowl down by him, scatters dried berries over the top and drops the spoon in before starting on her own. Atles makes simple breakfasts when they’re on the move - porridge, usually, or a berry puree with oats - only rarely taking the time to make a fuller meal. It’s always good though and she’s halfway through devouring hers when the drow blinks and lifts his head.

“Hey there,” she says. “Morning.”

_“...Asanque.”_

“Breakfast?” she asks, nudging the bowl towards him with one foot. He tilts his head, frown evident and lifts his bound and broken hands. “There’s a spoon,” she says, indicating it. “Give me a mo.” The man’s face only gets worse and she rolls her eyes before polishing off the rest of her meal. “Here,” she says, reaching for the spoon. “I can feed you.”

He stares at her more. Tesythe is really starting to think he might not understand even a little of Common. Clearly, she waggles the spoon at him, then moves to scoop up a spoonful of porridge and berries and goes to feed him. 

He recoils.

“It is not poison,” she says in careful Elvish. “Believe me.”

“Liar,” he says.

She eats the spoonful. “I will not refuse a second breakfast,” she says. “But I did promise you food if you behaved. You did. So-” She gestures with the spoon. “Breakfast.” He glares at her, mouth firmly shut. She still hears his stomach rumble. “Your hands are still broken,” she says, firmly. “If you eat, I will ask Atles to heal them.”

 _“Dos ilindith jivvin xuil usstan,”_ he says flatly. She sighs and glances over to Isie.

“He thinks you’re toying with him,” she says in Common. “I told you. Drow don’t think kindness exists. And you did beat him up last night.”

“True,” she says, then smiles at the drow. “Maybe I am playing,” she says in Elvish. “But I keep my word.” She fills the spoon and lifts it. “Breakfast, you see. Will you eat it?”

He pulls five different faces before he nods. When she goes to give him the food, he lunges and bites her. She punches back.

“Come on!” she says, when she’s wrestled him back to the ground, having kicked him in the balls and almost crushed one of his broken hands again. Elvish, she reminds herself. It’s the only shared language they have right now. “I will hurt you as much as I must to make you listen,” she says firmly. “I defeated you. I captured you. You are _my_ prisoner.”

He’s looking up at her now, lip bloodied _again_ where she’d split it last night. She takes his jaw in her hand because apparently the best way to keep his attention is to force him to look at her, to be a moment from throttling him. _Drow,_ she reminds herself. _Fucked up society._ She runs her thumb over the trickle of blood, sees him wince just a little as she tugs at the flesh. 

_“Wael,”_ she says. “We beat you. I defeated you. You are my prisoner. So _behave.”_

 _“Xor vel’bol?”_

She doesn’t even have to glance to Isie for that; the tone makes it clear enough. _Or what._

“Or no breakfast,” she says. She nods to his hands, runs her thumb over his lip again. “No healing.”

 _“Naut elend ilareth.”_

“I do not speak Drow,” she says, clearly. “I know you speak Elvish.”

“You are a strange master.” The words, though stilted, are clear, and there’s no apparent anger, frustration - anything she might have expected from his previous actions. Even his expression has calmed - no more faces being pulled, no more constant doubting. 

“Yes I am,” she says. “Are you going to behave?” He tries to duck his head, lower his gaze, but she won’t let him. “Look at me,” she says. “Will you behave?”

 _“Igge, ilareth,”_ he says, in exactly the same tone as last night. He’d kept his word then, Tes is going to hope he keeps it now.

“Good,” she says. He blinks up at her, the same unreadable flicker that could almost be a flinch except that it’s gone too soon for her to be sure. “What’s your name?”

He frowns at that. “You said-”

“And you _bit me.”_ He tries, again, to lower his gaze at that. She doesn’t think it’s shame - she’s not entirely sure Drow have any concept of it - but he does seem to be aware that it was a bad decision, which is at least something. She grips his jaw harder, makes him look at her. “Your name?”

He watches her for a long moment. If she didn’t know better - didn’t have the bitemarks on her hand - she’d almost think he _liked_ this. Or, maybe, having a woman take control was something he was so used to the familiarity of it made it easier for him to listen and obey even if she was human rather than drow. 

“Velkyn,” he says. “Of no family of name, previously bound to House Baenre.”

“And now?”

She doesn’t know how to read his expression as he looks at her - equal parts assessing, considering… obeying. “Now I am bound to you,” he says. “What is your name?”

She really shouldn’t trust him. Last time she had, he’d bitten her hand. Still, if he is her responsibility-

“Tesythe,” she says. “Tesythe Carella of Brinor Trade and Adventuring Company.”

 _“Ilareth,”_ he says. His gaze dips again and Tes is getting increasingly confused by what it is - not shame, certainly some kind of acknowledgement, in this case, perhaps respect? She’s going to have to ask Isalanthe what that word he keeps using means, she knows that much. 

“Good boy,” she says, in lieu of anything else to say. Just like last night, just like before, he seems almost - but not quite - to flinch. “You will behave?”

He sighs, soft and not exasperated. Just… calm, in the strangest fucking way. _“Igge, ilareth,”_ he says. 

“Good,” she says and lets go of his chin, reaches for the spoon. “Do not bite me.”

_“Igge, ilareth.”_

* * *

**v.  
**He eats without making fuss. It’s embarrassing to have to be spoonfed like this but with the state of his hands-

Well, he is a prisoner. He doesn’t think they think highly enough of him to care if he’s embarrassed; no one ever has before. More likely the idea of it amuses them. From the light in the male elf’s eyes, the readiness he’d had with his knife during last night’s escape attempt only restrained by his sister, Velkyn doesn’t doubt that the elves, at least, don’t care an iota for his pride. 

This human doesn’t either but she’s direct. She’d been direct last night, too, brutality for the attempt at escape and then a bargain struck. 

A bargain kept. He’s not entirely sure, yet, how he might be able to use that against them, that sense of exacting honesty, but he knows he can. Honesty, trust, kindness, gentleness and honour. All of them weaknesses, all of them vulnerabilities.

He eats and he thinks, spoonful after spoonful of - some surface grain mixed with milk and berries, sweeter than anything he’s used to. Surface foods are a rarity in Menzoberranzan, even with the trade and the raids; such riches never usually fell to those of his rank except as scraps. 

And here he is, being fed a full meal portion of the stuff. 

He knows, if he can find a way to return with these people, with all they have, his initial failure in battle will mean nothing. If he can best them all on his own, if he can bring back what wealth they have and present it to _ilharess_ Baenre then he will be _welcomed,_ be given a higher rank and standing, something which could become a more secure position.

The problem is, he doesn’t know if he can. The tiefling has spellwork, _powerful_ spellwork. He doesn’t know if she’s pacted to her infernal ancestor or if this is a product of bloodline or training. It hardly matters after the trickery she played on his party, letting the two elves rain down daggers and crossbow quarrels until Tesythe and the halfling arrived, wading into the melee with her sword and her own spells, quick and brutal and deadly, the halfling’s mace swinging with force and golden spell-light shining from his palm when she got too bloodied. 

If they keep their word then - _perhaps_ \- he can convince them he will keep his. Convince them to heal him. To let him walk with them unbound. To return his weapons to him and his spell components. But that will take time and he wouldn’t be surprised if it would take so long they would be back to the surface before he had a chance. And, then, he would have to haul them all the way back down on his own. 

He’s not entirely sure it’s worth it. Lolth asks survival and supremacy and strife of them but one cannot be supreme and incite strife for her pleasure if one does not first survive. One cannot prove one’s strength if one is _dead._

Velkyn really would rather not die. He’s barely a half-century old yet. 

* * *

**vi.  
**He can’t understand all that they’re saying. The elves spoke to each other in Elvish a few times before they caught him listening in; now they speak something else, something even more musical and poetic, something he suspects is Celestial. The tiefling and the halfling converse in something surface - surface Common, he’d guess. There’s a few loanwords from Undercommon but he’s not entirely sure the meaning has translated right.

Or maybe it’s just cultural differences.

Once he’s eaten, Tesythe rises, scooping up both wooden bowls as she goes. There’s a quick and elegant grace to her - not the same as the elfess’ deft dexterousness but something that speaks to skill and training, the whole body honed as a weapon. This close and without the immediate threat of violence it’s easier to see - this human is strong, this human is tough. The scars on her cheek and jaw already attest to that, shiny and pale against the soft brown of her skin, slicing through the freckles beneath her eyes, but watching her _move-_

That explains to him far more clearly why he lost so appallingly in combat, how she was so quick to respond to his attempt to free himself last night. 

She returns the bowls to the halfling, briefly conversing before convincing the smaller man over. Though the tiefling woman seems to rule this group, everyone else’s rankings are harder to parse - they seem for the most part to be equals, no one clearly deferring to anyone else unless the tiefling weighs in.

“Velkyn?” He looks up at Tesythe where she stands, the halfling at her side. “This is Atles. He will heal your hands. You will behave?”

She’s been using Elvish consistently, even if her attempts at it are as poor as his own. He pries out his own knowledge of the language enough to answer. _“Avavaen, Tesythe.”_

She almost smiles at that. If it’s the Elvish that does it or the use of her name he doesn’t know but he files it away for later use as the halfling drops down in front of him, golden magic pooling in his hands as he reaches for his broken ones, muttering under his breath something that doesn’t _sound_ like an incantation. It’s too grumbling and apologetic for that.

The halfling is quick and efficient, small tanned hands around the pitch of his own, glowing with golden magic. Velkyn can feel the broken, gravelised bones slotting and bending back into place even though it doesn’t hurt. It’s certainly nicer healing than the Lolthian clerics usually dole out, those rare occasions they do at all.

 _Soft,_ he thinks, in a voice uncannily like that of _ilharess_ Baenre. _Weak. By healing you they spell their doom._

 _Doom,_ he thinks. _Sure. I’m somehow going to defeat the five people who destroyed Commander Kyone and everyone else. My best hope is poison and I highly doubt they’ll let me dose them._ He pauses as the last pieces of bone fit into place, as the halfling turns his hands over, checking it’s all healed up right. Soft and caring - a weakness - but he doesn’t know how to use that yet. _Besides, I don’t even have any poison left; they confiscated it._

* * *

**vii.  
** Velkyn behaves. He behaves as his hands are healed, he behaves as she explains that he’s staying bound until they have reason to trust him, he behaves the whole day of travel and the whole night. He behaves for most of the next _week_ as they trudge their way through various levels of the Underdark, hurrying through what trade outposts Cevelette knows and is comfortable stopping at.

Tesythe really isn’t sure what to make of it. 

“It’s weird,” Isie says one evening. They’ve started letting Velkyn have use of his hands once they stake camp, so long as he stays nearby to everyone, and he’s not yet done anything to abuse the chance given. “And the honorific he uses for you. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he meant it sincerely.”

 _Ilareth,_ Tes has learned, is a term of respect - used for military commanders or other superiors, someone to be obeyed. She’s not entirely sure what to make of the fact that Velkyn uses it for her, nor of how he’s taken to entering Reverie while sitting _seiza_ at the foot of her bedroll. She’s taken to speaking to him more, if only to try to understand his motives but either he’s genuine in this or he’s got a very good game face.

He’s drow, as Isie and Imie insist on reminding them all. Of course he’s got a good game face.

Still. It’s been educational. Velkyn, so far as she can tell, has a pretty direct view of things. He thinks they’re all fools, dislikes Imie and Isie, is uncertain what to make of Atles and how casually the halfling speaks back to Cevelette and is as wary of Cevelette’s illusion magic as he is respectful of Tesythe’s ability in combat.

She hasn’t had to beat him up again, either. She’s wondering how long before she’s going to have to.

Still, he listens, now. He hasn’t tried to escape or to bite them. Hell, when one of them asks him a question he’ll even respond, though how honest he’s being none of them knows. Tesythe is more willing to take a chance and trust him than the others, though, travelling close to him most days. There’s something in his eyes when she speaks to him, asks him if he’ll behave, something to his tone when he says _‘Igge, ilareth’_ that she isn’t any more certain how to read than she is the flicker in his gaze when she takes his jaw in her hands and tells him he’s been good. 

Drow don’t have much place for kindness. They think it a weakness. But, she hopes - perhaps naively - she can convince Velkyn that kindness is not so terrible a thing.

* * *

**viii.  
**They don’t return his weapons. He can’t blame them for that - it’s not as though he’d give them theirs if he’d captured them. He can respect that, even. They have taken to leaving him unbound once they set camp, though, just a rope at his waist to grab him back if he attempts to wander off. He doesn’t, instead helping to tend to the lizards. He’d grown up by the stables until his skill at it was noticed and even if these ones aren’t bespelled into obedience he knows how to handle them.

He could, he supposes, thieve weapons from the saddlebags or take a broken claw or shed tooth to make one. It wouldn’t be hard - his first knife had been a rider lizard’s fang carved and set into a quaggoth bone. It had served him well until Kyone’s sword had shattered it. 

But he’s not going to try. If they found a weapon on him it would undo all the effort he’s put in obeying and behaving and this is easier. He supposes if he really wanted to make a point he could collect the broken claws and shed teeth and give them to Tesythe - a show of faith for all her shows of faith - but he doesn’t. He suspects that might be too obvious a play, too obviously saying _I’ll behave, look you can trust me_ and besides, should the time come he needs a weapon, they’ll know he can use them. Better he stays quiet.

So instead he does as told, makes some little conversation and tries not to be startled when Tesythe starts picking up further scraps of Drow.

They’re not attacked much. Oh there’s a few things down here that are basically impossible to avoid - displacer beasts get determined, goblins get everywhere. There’s a few intellect devourers that concern Velkyn - he’d not heard of illithid in the area, even this far from Menzoberranzan and that their little minions are around is worrisome. The male elf spots dragon tracks but they manage to avoid that, just as they do the roper by one treacherous bend of the path. Even when they reach a waterway filled with _pyrimo_ Velkyn points it out before anyone gets eaten.

It’s too dangerous down here to have a weak party - even if these people have captured him, it’s better that they’re intact until he’s ready to escape than injured and liable to get them all killed.

Instead they stake camp by the river, the halfling pulling a small net from his pack and sitting down to fish. 

Back home, _pyrimo_ are a delicacy. Something he’d only get the scraps of if he was lucky. He’s not entirely sure what to do when he’s given a portion with dinner equal to that of the others’.

* * *

**ix.**  
“What was your life like?” Tesythe asks the next day. They’re all moving on, the two elves scouting ahead, and so, despite his bound hands, the bindings have been loosened enough that he can ride one of the lizards. As he is apparently Tesythe’s responsibility, he rides beside her. 

“Busy,” he replies.

“What did you do?”

“The lizards,” he says, nodding at his current mount. “I tended them.” He shrugs. “Then the overseer saw that I was good at it and I was raised a rank.” 

“And then?”

There’s genuine curiosity to her expression, to her tone. Back in Menzoberranzan, anyone would know already, would understand. They’d not need it explained, the way one moved through ranks whether one liked it or not when one’s abilities or lack thereof gained notice.

But the surface is weak. This group has no clear stratification beyond the fact that the tiefling is at the top and he, Velkyn, is at the bottom. 

“I tended different lizards. The lizard of _ilharess_ Baenre. Her daughters’ lizards. That of the guard captain. I made sure they were prepared for long journeys.”

“And one day they decided to bring you along.”

He nods. If she’s guessed that part, then he sees no need to say how long it was between that first time he was attached to a ride and the time it was that they fought him. No need to tell of his other skills, his other training, his time as a courier and a herald, his knowledge of courtesies and trade routes.

If they know all that, they might just ask him to help, and if he fails them then, be it intentional betrayal or a genuine accident, he is quite certain he will die.

(He still does not want to die.)

“What does that word mean?”

He doesn’t expect the question and glances over to Tesythe, puzzled. Their lizards finish clambering over the pile of rock through to a new chamber. It widens around them, turquoise fungi glowing clearly enough that the cleric douses his Light cantrip. 

“Which word?”

 _“Ilharess.”_ She pronounces it awkwardly, carefully. It sits as unfamiliarly in her mouth as the Elvish does but she’s making an effort with it nonetheless. He doesn’t doubt that, with practice, she’d manage Drow with the same stumbling grace as she does Elvish - not perfect but with confidence and an almost endearing awkwardness. Far better than his own Elvish, let alone his attempts at surface Common.

It’s not a word he thinks there is an easy way to translate to Elvish. The elves have rulers, yes, but they are not matriarchal. Corellon is male in some depictions and in some without gender at all but Lolth is and has always been female, always the spideress and queen, weaver of webs and womb of their world. To drow, monarchy has always been won by women, to other elves, rulership requires no gendered marker. So, he supposes, he shall have to make up a translation as best he can.

“A ruling mother,” he says, eventually. “Not all mothers rule. But an _ilharess_ is a mother who rules a house, even if she has no children. She is... hm. Usually, the oldest and most powerful and so the family regards her with the honour of a mother. She is the protector and ruler of the family and everyone must obey her. She serves Lolth, usually. Only a very few do not.”

Tesythe seems puzzled a moment, turning the words over before saying carefully, “Matron mother? Is that the term?”

He did not know Elvish had a term for it. Not formally. 

“Yes,” he says and Tesythe hums thoughtfully.

He’s still not sure what to make of her. She is direct, yes. She does not seem to lie without reason - has not lied at all that he has noticed and he is _good_ at noticing lies - has to be with how often he’s had to tell them. She is not stupid, either, but he does not think she is as sharply intelligent as the elfess sometimes seems, nor as cuttingly quick as the tiefling she obeys.

So he doesn’t expect it when she asks.

“The term you use for me, _ilareth._ Is it related to _ilharess?_ They sound similar.”

He blinks, pauses. He has no way of knowing if she knows what _ilareth_ is - a term of respect, used for battlefield commanders as often as a mistress or master a slave wishes to appease. And the terms _are_ related - _ilha_ and _ila_ both variants of the feminine pronoun, both used to indicate that which is honoured: _ila_ in a general way that is permitted to indicate honoured respect for anyone, _ilha_ a more parental indicator, if not necessarily motherly.

“Distantly,” he says, mouth still dry. “They are distantly related. _Ilharess_ is a specific title, the female mother who rules. _Ilhar_ is a mother, _ilharn_ a patron.” He tilts his head. “Sometimes it can mean a father.”

“So a respected father would be _ilharness?”_

 _“No._ There is no term for that - _-ess_ is a feminine ending. Men are not permitted to use it for themselves.” For a little while there is quiet. 

“So what is _ilareth,_ then? If it is similar to _ilharess._ Is it the male version?” There is no edge to her words, no sign she is insulted by that if it is the case. He is not sure if he should take that as some kind of a warning, an indication that there is anger, just well-hidden, waiting for confirmation, or if, somehow, she already knows. The elfess has proven to know Drow already - he would not be surprised if she had translated it for her friend. Or, perhaps, she believes that, as she is a non-drow, different terms must be used for her.

But he cannot guess and cannot play into whatever belief she may have. Instead, when uncertain, he has long since learned that the best course is something close to honesty. 

“It is a term of respect,” he says. “For anyone. _Ilharess_ may only be used for the Matron Mothers, _ilhar_ simply means mother. _Ilareth_ \- I would use it for the guard captain or for the overseer or for a priestess-in-training I was to take a message to. Respect but not as formal as _malla.”_ He glances over to her, uncertain how to read her expression. _“Malla_ is honoured - it is formal and it is recognised, like _ilharess._ But _ilareth_ is informal.”

“Like calling someone Sir,” Tesythe says, looking thoughtful. Velkyn nods but watches her expression closely. It’s changing piece by piece, flickers in her eyes, quirks to her lips. She is not a fickle woman, this human who has bested him, not as so many of the priestesses back in Menzoberranzan were, but she is not someone he entirely knows how to predict yet and that frightens him. She has never yet hurt him without clear reason but if he cannot predict her then he cannot be sure he is safe.

“Velkyn,” she says slowly, a smile spreading across her face until it shows all her teeth, pale contrast to the darker shade of her skin. “Does that mean you respect me?”

He is not sure what to make of that smile - it is not simply pleased, it is not even entirely satisfied, and it certainly isn’t the sadistic smile of _ilharess_ Baenre when victorious. It is not vicious, it is not deadly, but there is- there is an edge to it he is not sure what to make of.

“You bested me in battle,” he says. “And you have proven your strength. It would be foolish not to.”

“That did not stop you from biting me,” she points out.

“I wished to escape,” he says. “Would you blame me for wishing to go home?”

“No,” Tesythe says, before he can reconsider his words. Her voice is strangely soft; it reminds him of an exposed underbelly - tender, vulnerable. “No, I would not blame you for wanting to return to what you know. I do not think anyone would wish to be a prisoner.”

Empathy. A weakness. One he could use, _should_ use. Plead his harmlessness, entreat to be allowed home, to what he has always known. He could. He _should._ If he was a true slave of House Baenre he should seek to return and, in any ideal world, should bring these surface-dwellers back as tribute to _ilharess_ Baenre. 

But - he has been better treated here than he was even as the well-dressed formal courier back home. Even as the prettied-up herald, even when he was asked to act as an additional guard and it all led to this. Even as a prisoner to these people, he has been more reliably treated. No broken words - just broken hands, healed within a day. Even when he has fought to escape they have not increased cruelty, only doled out a punishment and waited.

He does not _want_ to use their weaknesses against them. Perhaps, after all, he is weak too.

“Regardless,” he says. “You have proven your strength. You have also proven you keep your word. You have given me good reason to respect you and so - _ilareth.”_

He still does not know what to make of the smile she gives then but it is closer to the soft strange one she gives when he agrees to behave. He does not wholly know what to do with it, with the curl it of warmth it sends through him, but he sits straighter in the saddle.

* * *

**x.**  
He is willing to be honest, that Tesythe learns. Not in all things, perhaps, and she knows better than to assume his honesty is offered in pure good faith but it is _something_ at least. A step further towards at least some basic degree of decency. And, entirely wittingly or not, he is teaching her Drow. There are more differences between it and Elvish for her to easily grasp; she cannot make the mental links Isie claims she found when she learned it but there _is_ a logic to it.

And when she uses the Drow she has learned from him, he responds without hesitation, no indication he has to mentally check an altered dictionary. When she checks with Isalanthe she more closely defines some words but nothing is ever so drastically wrong as to make her suspect lies. 

It is promising. Even Isie is more willing to give Velkyn more trust, to give him an extra few feet of movement on the rope around camp, though Imeloch scowls like anything. 

When the rope comes undone - perhaps a shoddy knot failing, perhaps the result of Cevelette’s magic carefully tugging it loose in a test and Tesythe is inclined to believe the latter - Velkyn does not run. He continues helping around the camp. When Tesythe prepares to bed down to sleep he brings the rope with him, sets it down in a coil when he settles in for Reverie at the foot of her bedroll.

Tesythe does not need to see the others bickering to know they are betting if he will stay or not, turn on them or not, try to hurt them or not. 

“You will behave?” she asks, soft in Elvish so only Velkyn can hear. She does not reach for the rope. 

He blinks, startled, not expecting the question. _“Igge, ilareth.”_

He’s as calm as ever, the strange note to his voice Tesythe increasingly thinks means honesty. Gently she reaches out to touch his hand, to pat it, once, twice.

“Good boy,” she says. “Have a restful Reverie.” 

He doesn’t reply - he does not even offer his normal not-quite-a-flinch at the gentle praise. Instead, his face is simply shocked, not scared but uncertain in the face of simple kindness. 

“Velkyn,” she says, firm but not harsh. “Rest.”

When she wakes, he is still sat _seiza_ at the foot of her bedroll, eyes gently shut. The rope is still beside him, neatly coiled, ready to tether him again, untouched.

“You will be good?” she asks before they prepare to ride out that day. “You will behave?”

There is no hesitation to him now, no uncertainty. _“Igge, ilareth.”_

She does not bind his hands, she does not tie a rope to his waist. No need to return his weapons yet, no, but if he will not run, will not hurt them, will spend the whole night sat by her side with a long enough length of rope to make a trap or a noose, with the rope they use to tie him left undestroyed… she is willing to offer trust for such a clear endeavour to win it. He has not bitten her since that second day - it has been more than a week. 

She is not certain they are winning him over but she has hope. 

* * *

**xi.**  
He does not know how long these people intend to stay down here. Most surface-dwellers - they pass through fleetingly, the Underdark too dangerous, too threatening, too filled with ready pitfalls for them all. They are not prepared for it as the drow and duergar are and if they stay too long below, so increases the chance of death, or capture, or some horrible other fate. There are illithid dens scattered through the Underdark and Velkyn knows well to fear them.

“We are a trading company,” Tesythe reminds him. “And an adventuring company. Cevelette has several settlements she wishes to trade at and several sites she wishes to explore. We will stay below as long as we have food to feed us and sites left to see.”

He does not know how to get across how dangerous that is - he knows they cannot be strangers to danger but this is more than that as their routes take them closer to outlier settlements of Menzoberranzan, sites not true Drow cities but nonetheless client cavedoms. 

“Velkyn,” she says, softly insistent. “We have survived a great deal.” She smiles, genuine good humour. “We survived you. We will be fine. We always find a way.”

He does not know how, in Elvish, to express the nature of his concern - not just the risk to all of them but the risk of being _taken_ from them. He has acted as courier to these outlier settlements before, if they pass anyone from them, if he is recognised, they might try to barter for him, drag him back to _ilharess_ Baenre with all kinds of questions as to how he walked free with surface-dwellers and made no attempt to escape or return home. 

He is not entirely sure which frightens him more - the prospect of being taken back to _ilharess_ Baenre’s cruelty and expectations, the commands she wields that he cannot escape and the status he never asked for, never wanted for all it’s benefits, or the prospect of losing this, travelling with these strange people who nonetheless offer kindness with no expectation but peace in response.

* * *

**xii.**  
He is getting restless as they skirt the last few of the drow satellite settlements. She knows they have been lucky so far, to go unnoticed, to avoid even traders or patrols. She does not doubt he fears it won’t last - she fears it more than a little herself - and so, when she is done helping Atles set up the hearth and stewpot, once Cevelette has cast an illusion over their little cave nook to make it look like a rockfall and set an Alarm to warn of unexpected approach, she goes to where Velkyn is laying out her bedroll, the folded blanket he kneels on for Reverie. 

He stills when she touches his head, a true stillness almost eerie in its entirety but which eases when he glances up from where he kneels to see her face. 

“It is just me,” she assures him.

_“Ilareth Tesythe.”_

He calls her that more and more, name and honorific in full. It is not quite as before, nigh-fearful obedience, wariness and pride and admission of respect for skill, if nothing else. It is warmer now and she is not sure if he has noticed it.

“You have been anxious,” she says gently, fingers stroking through his hair. She does not miss how he leans, just a little, into the touch. 

“I know these settlements,” he says softly. It sounds like an admission he is not sure he should give. “I have visited a few before, for _ilharess_ Baenre.” When his eyes find hers they are distinctly afraid. Tes doesn’t know what to make of it; she’s never seen him look like that before even when she fought him to a standstill. “I do not want to go back,” he says. “But if we cross someone, someone who recognises me-”

“They may want to make you.” It’s frighteningly easy to put together and she strokes his hair again, trying to soothe. “I’ll tell Cevelette to take care to steer us clear. It will be alright.”

He does not say anything when he exhales - not a sigh but some degree of tension being released at least and when he sits _seiza_ to enter Reverie that night, he sits by her side, not her feet.

* * *

**xiii.**  
She wakes with a start - some noise, she thinks - but no, the memories of a nightmare trace lightly through her mind, just enough to be upsetting. She casts around for something recognisable but it’s pitch black. She can hear the steady breathing of the others asleep, the shuffling noises of the lizards but with the fire extinguished and no glowing fungi she can’t _see-_

A light flares, illuminating a face as black as pitch, pale glass-green eyes, and one of the small tallow candles Cevelette had got for their lanterns sputters as it’s lit.

_“Ilareth Tesythe.”_

A hand finds hers, healed fingers steady but still slightly crooked.

“You are safe,” he says in Elvish, voice low. “Isalanthe is on watch.” He pauses for a moment, setting the candle down and Tes simply watches him, all smooth shadowed grace as he moves around her, careful to give her space but for the single point of contact, his hand on hers. “You slept,” he says softly, almost tentative. “Something woke you?”

His voice makes it a question. It makes sense, she supposes. Like other elves, drow Trance rather than sleeping. Surface elves have enough contact with non-elves to understand the concept of sleep, of dreams, of nightmares. Below, in drow cities, what few humans are there would mostly be slaves and so below notice. The idea of dreams and nightmares is probably almost unheard of to them.

“Bad dream,” she says. He still looks puzzled. “Do not worry,” she says, when the frown doesn’t ease. “It is nothing.”

“I am not worried,” he says. In the flickering candlelight something akin to worry still crosses his face nonetheless. “But it is not nothing. You are human. You must sleep. This stopped you sleeping.”

It’s a simple litany of facts and were it anyone else she might almost think they cared. But - it’s Velkyn. Her drow prisoner. Even with his strange respect and slowly increasing warmth, she hardly thinks he completely trusts them, let alone cares about any of them to any real extent despite his increasing honesty. But he’s watching her closely, the frown still not entirely eased, and so she shrugs. 

“It is not the first time,” she says. “I can go back to sleep.”

“Do,” he says, still frowning. “I will keep watch. No one will hurt you.”

That almost makes her laugh, his strange quiet determination. It is surprisingly endearing. “Not even you?”

His eyes narrow, he chews his lip. _“Nau,”_ he says. _“Ilareth Tesythe._ Not even me.”

* * *

**xiv.  
**When she wakes he’s sat at her side, his hand in hers, keeping quiet watch. 

* * *

**xv.  
**They clear the last of the satellite settlements without trouble. Velkyn does not know how to explain the sense of relief, now there are no longer iron clamps of dread around his ribcage, but it is clarifying nonetheless. He has always hated that feeling, that sense of dread; it has never brought him any kind of excitement or energy or drive as it has others, merely a growing anxiety. Perhaps, if anything, that too is a further reason why he is better suited to this soft troupe of surface-dwellers than his own kind. 

They clear the satellite settlements without trouble but they do not get far. Velkyn wonders if, perhaps, that is the trade, that they avoided _that_ terror at the cost of something else - and he has not even his weapons to help in a fight, though he has some little spellwork to his advantage at least.

The party is strong - that’s an upside. They’re strong and even given the ambush scenario, they’re tough. Cevelette has a hand extended, magic flying from her splayed fingers even before the first attack is done; Atles’ hand is pressed to his pendant, golden light starting to glint between his fingers, the elf twins are rushing ahead even as Tesythe draws her sword.

But an obsidian dragon is a _very_ hard beast to fight. Even a barely adult one.

It roars down from the ceiling, wings flared to catch it, glassy black against the darkness of the cavern and Velkyn wishes he had a blade, more comfortable with a weapon in his hand for all the training _ilharess_ Baenre insisted he underwent, wishes he had his component pouch at least because without it those few more damaging spells he’s capable of are out of reach. 

There’s nothing for it, though as the flames spark from its mouth, as the others dodge and duck and hope, the lizards shying back as the others leap from the creature’s backs. He pats the lizards’ shoulders. Soothes them as best he can. 

Then he too, dismounts, reviewing what spells he _does_ have at his disposal.

Not much, he knows, but with most of his good spells unavailable to him, he supposes he can always pour more power into lesser spells. He knows from painful experience how effective that can be. 

“Velkyn!” Tesythe’s voice is loud and clear, the Elvish clipped and awkward with the stress of battle as she fights, plunging her sword as far into the dragon’s belly as she can while Cevelette casts something in a dark, guttural language, fingers twisting as black tentacles rise from the ground around the dragon’s rear half, tangling hard around it’s legs and anchoring it to the cavern floor. “Velkyn, _get clear!”_

But he can’t do that. Not when he knows how dangerous obsidians can be. He lifts his hands, palms pressed together, curls the lower two fingers together as he twists his hands, the remaining free fingers of one hand bracing the others as he points, sighting down the line of them. 

Blue-white light, pale as lake-ice, shoots from his fingers, crackling into the side of the beast even as Imeloch’s arrows hit, snapping with lightning, as the elf’s little beast nips hard at the dragon’s ankles. The lightning crackles across the ice of his spell, the slick sheen of it working into the crooks and crannies of the dragon’s scales, even the dragon’s heat only serving to melt the ice before the magic makes it freeze, the lightning spreading and the dragon _screams._

He doesn’t expect the elfess to speak but she does, in Drow as precise and exacting as _ilharess_ Baenre. 

“Velkyn!” she calls, quick and commanding. “Again!”

Well, few of his other available spells can do much damage, and not with how obsidians are immune to fire, not with his other option unavailable due to lack of components. He shakes his tingling hands out before pressing his palms together, repeating the motion as he moves closer - dangerous, yes, but he wants to be more certain of his aim. 

The spell hits as another of Imeloch’s arrows does but the dragon’s shocked flailing at further lightning breaks it free of Cevelette’s binding spell and it twists, turns, wheeling around so it’s tail strikes out at Cevelette. She barely dodges, ending up prone, and the dragon’s claws dart out ripping across Tesythe.

She’s thrown back and lands, winded, mere feet from Velkyn but her armour seems to have taken the brunt of the damage, for all there’s blood trickling from her forehead, black-burgundy dragonsblood on her blade. 

“Up,” he says, offering her a hand, and he has no idea if it’s Drow or Elvish or Undercommon, it hardly matters because she takes his hand as Atles cries something out, something in what has to be Celestial but harsh, cruel in a way Celestial is never supposed to be, a choral song turned into a mourning dirge, a call to battle, a furious cry all at once, and luminescent green magic glows from the halfling, no hint of his usual gold, and swirls around the dragon like a swarm, a miasma, wrapping around and sinking in and the dragon cries out, hoarse and hacking, coughing only wet sparks of flame. 

The look of vicious satisfaction on the halfling’s face is one Velkyn never wishes to see again; someone usually so calm, so friendly, so _kind,_ has no business looking so utterly cruel.

 _“You,”_ the dragon snarls, not Draconic, not Drow, but Undercommon and Velkyn thinks only he and Cevelette the tiefling understand it as the dragon’s head twists towards Atles but whatever strange magic the halfling cast earlier is shimmering around him now, hiding his location as the dragon tries to swipe. Atles twists aside as the dragon’s claw passes right through his body and he comes up unscathed, untouched, smiling. 

The dragon looks angry far more than it does hurt and Velkyn has no doubt this will not be an easy battle.

Tesythe darts forwards again, sword swinging out at the dragon’s leg before she pulls back, gaining enough space to dodge but not enough to prompt an immediate attack. Isalanthe the elfess is somehow halfway up the dragon’s back, two daggers and a shortsword embedded either side of it’s spine and at the base of it’s skull. Cevelette is spitting angry and when the dragon attempts to swipe at her next she Misty Steps away before casting something to render herself invisible. 

The dragon turns for them, now, the last left close enough by while it’s unable to reach up and claw at Isalanthe on it’s back, with Imeloch at a high vantage and Cevelette and Atles with their illusory selves in place. 

“Tesythe,” Velkyn says, darting closer, extending a hand. _“Ilareth Tesythe.”_

She doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate, but takes his hand and holds on tight as he casts a Dimension Door to pull them to the other side of the battlefield. 

* * *

**xvi.  
**Tesythe’s hand is warm in his, squeezing once before she lets go, running for the rock-ridge ahead of them, leaping forwards, sword out and the blade sinks into the dragon’s side, tears a wide gash open down it’s ribs and then she’s underneath it, hidden by its own vast bulk before another of Imeloch’s arrows lands, a second skittering off a wing. 

He can’t stay put. Where he is, at this distance, he’s no use to anyone.

He drops down the ridge, taking care as he goes - he is not half so reckless as Tesythe is - but he can hear, behind him, grunts of pain, snarls of anger, and knows that by the time he’s nearer the others will be yet more bloodied.

He lands on solid rock and turns. The others are scattered around but Tesythe stands before the dragon, some twenty-five feet away, her sword in one hand, icy-pale magic glistening in her other palm, bloodied teeth bared as she moves with all the battle-ready grace he’s come to expect of her. Her spell flies out, sword swinging hard in follow-up and the dragon gives a guttural growl, long neck coiling up and back, claws lifting from the ground-

The dragon is rearing, fire sparking in its throat, the glow bright through the dark glass of it’s scales and Velkyn runs, hand to his chest, incantation on his lips as he sprints, ducking under the dragon’s tail until he skids to a halt in front of Tesythe, arms outstretched to cover her as best he can as the dragon stares down at him, dark eyes glinting, fire-breath rising in it’s gullet. 

The flames come, the Shield spell rises and then all Velkyn knows is pain and fire and burning.

* * *

**xvii.  
** Atles is there in a moment, sprinting across the chamber as the dragon stumbles, swiping with one claw and almost catching his foot, one hand wrapped around his pendant and his two outstretched fingers glowing gold as they press to Velkyn’s brow. Tesythe recognises _spare the dying,_ for all it’s a rarely used spell.

“That’s all I can spare for now,” he says. “He’ll be stable as long as he stays clear.”

He can’t move, though, and they cannot stay put and protect him. The only option left is to kill this dragon.

Tesythe decides that she _really_ dislikes this dragon.

The rest of the fight is a blur - of fire, of scales, of swords and spellwork, frost and lightning cast over and over, claws dodged but not always successfully, claws digging in and teeth and flames harsh on flesh and their strikes back just as brutal, until the dragon keens a final cry and collapses, wheezing a final breath onto the bloodied, rocky floor. 

_Good riddance,_ Tesythe thinks and spits on the body before heading to Velkyn.

He’s untouched on the ground, no worse than he was before but the burns on him are terrible, spread from hip to hip and covering most of his chest. His armour is ruined and when she bends to press a hand to his forehead, he whimpers.

“Shh,” she says softly. Elvish, Elvish, it has to be Elvish. “It’s all right,” she promises. “You’re safe now.”

“There’s a cave back that way,” Imeloch calls as he clambers down from his vantage point, extending a hand to help his sister jump down from the dragon’s body. “Large, a lot of gold. I think that was it’s lair.”

“Accessible?” Cevelette asks and Imeloch nods. “Good. We’ll camp there to recuperate. At the minimum, we all need healing, Velkyn needs seeing to and we deserve that gold.”

Tes doesn’t hesitate; with as much gentleness as she can muster, she scoops Velkyn up. He whimpers, cries out, but doesn’t stir. “Atles?”

“He’s stable,” the halfling confirms. “I’ll see to him once I’ve seen to all of you, right now he’s too unconscious to really know much of what’s going on.”

No, Tesythe thinks. He knows enough to know he’s in pain. But they have bandages and potions for that, if they have any left after seeing to themselves.

She hears, behind her, the others discussing, Isalanthe’s quick voice before her steady footsteps head back towards the lizards, Atles’ low tones as he checks something with Lettie before darting ahead towards the cave. Imeloch’s voice, surprisingly quiet but clear nonetheless as he says, “When we have camp set up, we need to discuss the drow.”

Tesythe isn’t looking forward to it.

* * *

**xviii.  
**“He has spells.” 

Tesythe doesn’t look up from Velkyn. Atles’ spellwork has patched up most of them but Velkyn still bears the brunt of his injuries despite their best efforts. Magical healing has brought him back from the brink of death, stabilised him from his burns and bruises, but he’s still unconscious and hurt, injuries dotting his body.

Tes busies herself wrapping the burns on his side - a fine layer of healing herbs and honey, the bandages overtop to hold it in against his skin, soothing and soft until the morning, when Atles can look at him again. Velkyn, still unconscious, whimpers at the press of bandages, but doesn’t awaken. Doesn’t move. 

“Tes.” Imie’s voice is insistent. “He _has spells.”_

Tesythe doesn’t consider the statement worthy of responding to. 

“We noticed,” Lettie said. “He used them to help us.”

“Tes took a component pouch off him when we captured him,” Atles points out. “Binding his hands and keeping his components was the most we could do at the time.”

“If he could have escaped-”

“He tried the first night, brother. We stopped him.”

“His hands were broken then-”

“We kept his hands bound for most a week before giving him more rein to move in,” Atles points out. “He’d only have been able to do verbal spells and there aren’t many with only that. And odds are, we’d recognise the spell and stop him if he tried.”

“He’s had spells this whole time,” Imeloch states. “No, _listen._ If he had the spells, then once his hands were healed and we let him free, he could have used that. But he didn’t. For whatever reason - not to help us _and not to hurt either-”_ the latter part is said quickly as though he’s trying to cut someone off from interrupting him. “Just- if he’s had spells this whole time, if he’s had spells that he could have used to escape - he took Tes through a Dimension Door to get her out of the dragon’s way, then why didn’t he use that for himself? We’d not be able to catch him if he just DimDoor’d a straight hundred yards back behind us and took off running - so why didn’t he?”

“It’s dangerous down here,” Atles says, obviously. “Odds of surviving alone are lower than the hells.”

“He has useful spells,” Imeloch points out. “And he could have repeatedly used Dimension Door to cover additional distance if he was attacked.”

“He’s fond of Tes.” It’s Isie who says that, almost like it’s obvious. Tes can hear the telltale shift of cloth that means Isie’s shrugged. “He listens to her as he won’t any of us; he calls her _ilareth._ That’s a genuine term of respect.”

“Drow don’t do friendliness and _fondness,_ sister,” Imeloch says witheringly. “He could have escaped at almost any point since we let him go unbound in the campsite. So why hasn’t he?”

 _Because we’re kinder to him than his old masters were._ She smooths a hand lightly over his side, making sure the layers of bandages are secure. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t move, so she settles him down on her bedroll, moving to his other injuries - three fingers on his left hand are broken again and will need splinting, there’s grazes disappearing under what remains of the collar of his shirt, blood showing through the silver-grey cloth. His face is fine but his pale hair is bloodied, sections of it almost matted together. 

“You think he wants to stay with us because he’s got some kind of a plan.” Cevelette’s tone is considering, as though she thinks it likely. Tesythe couldn’t disagree more - Velkyn might have wanted to go home at first, might have wanted to go back to what he knows but Tes doesn’t think he really does, not anymore. He knows, at this point, that she’s sympathetic to him, if he wanted to leverage that to try to get home he could have, _hells_ he could have chosen not to warn her as they passed the satellite settlements. 

But he did. He chose to reassure her after a nightmare. He chose to save her life in the fight they just barely survived. Tesythe doesn’t think he’d have done that if he wanted only to go home. 

Velkyn’s hair is incredibly fine; as she mops the blood out of it it’s soft as silk, the thistledown-white of it stained slightly pink from his blood. As she gets closer to his scalp, the blood starts seeping again; a fine thin cut, not deep, but clearly painful given Velkyn’s expression as she cleans it. She moves one hand, gently strokes his head as she has before and, even unconscious, he leans a little into the touch. 

“Maybe,” Imeloch says. There’s a pause, no one speaking for a stretch and Tesythe welcomes the peace for what little time it lasts.

“He saved Tesythe’s life.” Atles’ voice is firm. “He didn’t have to do that. Help us, or at least not hinder us, yes, but put himself at risk to save one of our lives? No. He didn’t have to do that.” 

“If she died he’d have no way of knowing if he’d end up under our thumbs - and we aren’t so favourable to him as she is - or if we’d just kill him,” Imeloch says. Fantastic, they’ve stopped trying to drag her into the conversation. 

“He’s almost dead anyway, brother,” Isalanthe points out. “And he has no guarantee we’d heal him or even be able to heal him at the end of this. If he’s balancing risks this is a very risky play to make.”

“But if he saved one of our lives in doing so,” Cevelette says, “We’d have every reason to trust him in good faith.”

“Which he could then use to get his things, escape us and enact whatever plan he’s had time to make,” Imeloch seconds. “If we trust him he could lead us all the way back if he really wanted.”

“I’m not stupid, Imeloch, I’d notice if he led us in a circle.” Lettie’s voice is hard-edged and for a moment conversation lulls, the argument fizzling out with any indication that Cevelette is actually annoyed at something.

She’s done what she can for Velkyn for now. Gently, Tesythe lifts Velkyn’s head into her lap, pillowing his skull on a folded blanket and stroking his hair with one hand. Into the silence, she speaks.

“He doesn’t want to go back.”

There’s silence; when she looks up, the others are staring at her. 

“He said as much,” she says, tilting her head. “When we were passing the satellite settlements. He’d run messages to them before when he was a courier; he was afraid if we ran into anyone from there they’d recognise him.” She pauses, swallows. “And if they recognised him as a slave of Matron Mother Baenre, travelling willingly and unbound with surface-dwellers but without weapons, they’d think him a captured traitor and want to drag him back to Menzoberranzan for a reward.” 

She glances down at Velkyn. He has never said _why_ there would be a reward for a slave such as him returned. She supposes, now, the question is answered a little - his spellwork, as well as how fiercely he fought before… he is no common slave but a prized one, prized far more than just a courier or guard. She sighs and tucks her hair back, watches down at his face. There’s still a frown to his brow but his eyes are closed, his breathing soft and even. She knows from the twins how rare it is for elves to sleep - it’s _possible,_ yes, but a rarity. She combs her fingers through his hair and swallows. 

“The idea of being taken back terrified him. Of being taken back to _ilharess_ Baenre. I know you all think that drow can’t possibly be good but- he’s behaved. He’s done as asked. _I’m_ the one he’s hurt, more than any of you, and I’m the one that’s hurt him, more than any of you. And he saved my life.”

“You’re also responsible for him,” Cevelette points out gently. “You deal with him more than any of us; if anything is likely to soften someone towards another, Tes...”

She trails off, the conclusion obvious, for all she says it without accusation or blame. 

“I had a nightmare the other night.” It’s said softly; Tes doesn’t entirely realise she’s said it until the words are out. She swallows and speaks again. “I had a nightmare the other night and you know, I don’t think he even knows what nightmares are? Where he comes from, non-drow don’t matter enough for a drow, even a slave, to know much about sleep except that non-elves need it. Certainly not enough for them to know about dreams or nightmares. But I had a nightmare. It woke me. And- I couldn’t see. It’s pitch black down here and I couldn’t see a thing.

“And then he lit a candle for me. He-” She glances down at his face. “In his own way, he tried to comfort me. He was concerned. Isie was on watch, I think; he could have stayed in Reverie and waited for her to notice. He could have waited for me to remember we were in the Underdark and go back to sleep. He could have woken up and reminded me himself and never lit a candle. But- he realised why I was frightened and he tried to comfort me. He tried to be kind.”

For a while the others are quiet. When she dares to look up, Imie looks gobsmacked, Isalanthe genuinely surprised. Atles is wide-eyed and Lettie looks thoughtful. 

“You know it could have been manipulation,” she says, lifting a hand to rub one of her horns. “Drow- their society hinges on knowing how to handle others.”

“I don’t think it was,” Tesythe says. “And- how far do you go with a game to convince someone you’re on their side only to betray them? At a certain point, it’s not manipulation, it’s real.”

“Drow men traditionally have better odds of gaining power by ingratiating themselves with women,” Isie says thoughtfully. “Be that sisters they ally themselves too as trusted swords, or Matrons they become the favoured consorts of. When they’re unrelated… seduction is usually the technique drow men use. That or sometimes coercion.”

Tesythe blinks. “He hasn’t tried either with me.”

“Maybe he knows that surface cultures are different?” Imeloch says but even he sounds doubtful.

“He didn’t know what nightmares were,” Atles points out. “And while he might know that surface cultures are different - by how much, in what ways? If you go solely off our group, we’re basically a matriarchy too. Lettie gets final say in everything.” He shrugs. “So why wouldn’t he use that technique if it’s the standard and it works?”

They fall silent; no sound but for their breathing, the lizards shuffling, the campfire crackling. Tesythe strokes a hand through Velkyn’s hair. In his doze, he mumbles a little, head tilting into the touch, face pressing a little against her knee. 

“Shh,” she says. “Shh, it’s all right.”

The frown on his brow doesn’t ease but he quietens. 

“There’s nothing for it,” Lettie says. “We’ll stay at camp here for the night. Imie, Isie, do you think you can butcher the dragon for parts?” Tesythe supposes the two must nod because Lettie’s next words are, “Good, get on that. Atles, sort some food. Tes is clearly staying put to help Velkyn, so I’m on lizard duty this evening. When things are sorted, we’ll go through this hoard for anything good. No more discussing the drow until we’ve all got some damned sleep.”

The others head off; Tesythe would feel bad about leaving them to the campsite chores but that she wouldn’t feel right abandoning Velkyn right now, not while he’s unconscious with injuries. His head shifts a little in her lap, the bloodied side of his head pressing against bone and he winces, whimpers. His mumbled words are clearer. 

_“Nau,”_ he says, half a whisper, almost pleading. _“Nau, ilharess. Nau_ xaldos!”

She’s figured out the last word recently from their various small conversations. It means _please._

* * *

**xix.  
**He wakes and for a moment he’s disoriented. He doesn’t know where he is or how he got here - he remembers the dragon and grabbing Tesythe, the others all fighting and his reckless decision to use what magic he had available, fire, fire, burning and pain, the smell of his own skin cooking.

And now he’s laid out on … something soft, though he can feel hard ground beneath, his head resting on something else soft, something else soft beneath that. When he shifts his head there’s a moment of pain; he winces. For a moment he thinks- but the _ilharess_ rarely travels and never without a full retinue and as he casts his gaze up to take stock of things he sees the reassuring face of Tesythe, eyes shut and head tilted forward as she sleeps, a thick blanket draped around her shoulders.

He lets out a long and shaky breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. She must have fallen asleep while sitting cross-legged, he realises, his head in her lap; he can feel one of her hands in his hair. He has vague memories too, of the pain and also the soft soothing touch of a hand in his hair, stroking gently. His side and stomach, where he’d been burned, are painful but not as agonising as they had been; when he shifts a hand to touch he feels bandages. When he presses he feels something move beneath them - a poultice? His fingers are stiff, several of them splinted, but he’s not in so terribly bad a way he can’t move.

Well, that’s something. He plants his hands on the ground and tries to lift himself up. His splinted hand complains but he’s dealt with worse; it’s not until he’s halfway sat up that the wounds on his abdomen complain so much he collapses back down, a noise of pain escaping despite his best efforts. 

“Vel?” It’s mumbled, half-awake, and when he glances back up to Tesythe’s face her eyes are blinking open.

The Common, gods, what’s the Common. “Hello, Tesythe.”

“Velkyn!” It’s not an outright cry but it is louder and relieved and he doesn’t expect her smile, bright and shining, doesn’t expect her hands gentle around his face as she bends and presses a kiss to his forehead. “You’re awake,” she says in Elvish, still smiling. Her thumbs stroke his cheeks gently and, carefully, he tries to twist his head free of her touch. Hair is fine, hair he’s become used to from her, but face- no. She lets go without hesitation, one hand returning to his hair, the other reaching to one side for-

He hears sloshing sounds as she lifts a waterskin into view. 

“Are you thirsty?” she asks. “You’ve missed dinner, I’m afraid.”

He’s parched, he realises, and he nods. She lets him have the waterskin, helps lift his head so he doesn’t splash water everywhere since he can’t sit up and reclaims the waterskin when he’s done, settling his head back down.

For a while, there’s silence. Tesythe’s gaze is gentle as she watches down at him, relief still clear on her face, but she doesn’t speak. It’s… soothing, almost, in a strange way he doesn’t know how to parse. Perhaps it’s that Tesythe clearly has no expectations for him, doesn’t expect an outpouring of gratitude for his continued life. Perhaps it’s that here, at least, he is safe - he’s patched up, bandaged and poulticed even if not healed magically as Atles had his hands. 

There’s a lot of _perhapses._ He really doesn’t have the energy to ponder them all out right now.

“Feeling better?” Tesythe asks eventually, when he shifts a little to get comfortable, winces, and adjusts himself anyway. Her Elvish is more natural than when she first started speaking to him with it - has improved far more than his own - and he wonders how he didn’t notice it until now.

“Much,” he says and chuckles, winces, chuckles anyway. “I am not dead.”

“No,” Tesythe says and her hand strokes over his hair. He’s not sure if it’s meant to comfort her or him. “No, Atles stabilised you. He’ll see about healing you up better in the morning; we were all a bit tapped out on magic after that fight.” 

“They are awful,” he says. “Obsidian dragons. We are lucky they are few. Most do not like the Underdark; they prefer volcanoes or the Plane of Fire.”

“Obsidian?” Tesythe’s tone makes it a question. “That explains why we didn’t recognise it. It wasn’t like any black dragon we’d seen before.”

“Gemstone dragons,” Velkyn clarifies. “There are several types. But they are all rare.”

Tesythe laughs dryly. “Good,” she says. “I have decided I do not like them at all.”

He can’t help smiling at that, at the equal measures of humour and sincerity in her tone, the firmness of it, the way her hand strokes through his hair as she smiles down at him. 

“I’m glad you’re awake,” she says softly. “Seeing you unconscious- it was very strange.”

“I am going to sleep again,” he points out. “I am in no position to Trance like this. Not until the burns are healed enough I can sit up properly.”

“Perhaps,” she says. “But still. It’s good to know you’re on the mend.”

She doesn’t say anything more - and he has no idea what she expects him to _say_ to that, if anything - but she smiles down at him still, soft and warm. It makes him feel… oddly exposed in a way he doesn’t know what to make of, not uncomfortable but almost vulnerable - even though _she_ is the vulnerable one, to be so obviously kind and fond.

“Will you sleep?” he asks eventually, when the silence has stretched enough he finds it uncomfortable. He reaches a hand up to touch her hair - a few of the braids she uses to tuck the thick curls of the rest of it back have fallen loose from behind her ears and he tucks them back into place. “Sitting upright like this- it is fine for me when I Trance but I do not think humans are meant to sleep even halfway upright.”

“No,” she says. “We’re not. But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by leaving you without your pillow. You were too deeply asleep before for me to want to move; I was worried it would disturb you or hurt you if I did.”

“Fold a blanket,” he suggests. “Like you have done before. I will be fine. You need rest too.”

He doesn’t know what to do with _this_ expression she makes either, not a smile, but undeniably fond nonetheless, warm like the distant heat of the campfire - gone low and at a distance but a lingering, constant warmth all the same. It sends some uncertain thing coiling through his stomach, twisting up towards his throat and he blinks, uncertain in the face of it.

“All right,” she says. “One moment.”

She’s quick and deft as she lifts his head just a little, shuffles to one side and sets his head down as she folds a blanket, lifts his head and slides the bundle beneath his head. She doesn’t move to find a bedroll though, or anything else. He… he supposes, he must be using her bedroll, though, mustn’t he, and instead she settles at his side, the blanket from around her shoulders covering her as she folds her arms under her cheek to make a pillow. There’s an arm’s length between them, close enough to reach across but not so close as to feel uncomfortable, oppressive, unwanted. 

“Will you be able to sleep easily?” she asks. Her voice is softly curious, not without worry but not beladen with it either. “If you don’t usually.”

“I have not slept in years,” he admits. “It is too dangerous to do so. But I must and so I will.”

She watches him, quiet and steady before she lets out a long breath - not a sigh but one of relaxation. 

“All right,” she says. She reaches out one hand to him, tucks a piece of hair back behind his ear before returning her hand to being her pillow. “Sleep well, Velkyn.”

Her eyes close, her shoulders shift as she gets comfortable. He doesn’t know what to say but, “You also, _ilareth Tesythe.”_

* * *

**xx.  
**There is no conversation the next morning, despite Cevelette’s initial call for one. She wakes them, yes, hands gentle on their shoulders as she usually is, careful not to hurt them with her claws, but she glances down at their faces, smiles at them both and suggests that Tesythe get them both breakfast.

“It’s porridge,” she says. “Atles thought it’d be easier for Velkyn to eat if he’s having trouble moving - and he wants Velkyn to eat before he heals him.”

That’s… oddly gentle after the debate last night but Tes will take it. She fetches their bowls and helps Velkyn sit up, moving a lump of rock for him to lean against. 

Imeloch scowls at Cevelette, then his sister when Isalanthe flicks his nose and tells him to stop being a sourpuss but no one bothers them until they’ve finished eating, at which point Atles comes over, holy symbol in one hand and healing magic at his fingertips, to check on Velkyn.

A few spells later and Velkyn’s moving far more easily, able to sit more upright, able to stand without wincing. 

“We’ll leave the bandages on,” Atles says. “I don’t think I’ve healed the lot, yet, but that’s at least a start. I need some spells left for whatever bastard thing we’re inevitably going to face today.”

And that’s… that’s the end of it. Whatever debate they were going to have dismissed, Atles, always Cevelette’s most reliable ally, clearly on board, even Isalanthe more inclined to believe Velkyn an ally than an enemy. 

Tesythe’s not entirely sure what to make of it but she’s glad of it regardless.

* * *

**xxi.  
**The next few days are strangely quiet. Velkyn knows the Underdark well enough to know that’s never a good sign - quiet always precedes terror, always precedes some terrible event and it’s always best to be wary than to assume safety.

He’s too tired, the burns across his belly still not quite healed enough for him to be free of pain, to keep an eye out, but the others remain sharp. He’s glad of that. That, with these strange people he can trust them to see them safe.

(Perhaps, he thinks, this is the benefit of kindness and trust: you can rely on allies not because of threats that may lose their hold, not because of fear which may waver, but because they have their own vested interest in your wellbeing.)

(He’s not sure how he feels about that.)

Still. Things settle into a pattern, slightly different to before. He’s still allowed to go unbound, despite the fact they know of his spells; when they come to a river they need to cross Cevelette even suggests he could Dimension Door over, nothing in her face to suggest that he _has_ to, but rather that she trusts him to do that and no more.

He could do more, though, and so he casts Dimension Door over and over, taking the lizards through as well as everyone else.

“Good boy,” Tesythe says when they all land safely on the other side. Her smile is warm, her tone genuine and anything but condescending. He no longer feels half an imposter at her praise: he has no idea _what_ to do now but he knows he doesn’t want to win their faith just to turn on them anymore. Return home, maybe, but spending time around Tesythe and the others is no chore, no terror, not anymore.

If anything he might almost say he likes it.

Their path is starting to curve upwards now. They’d delved down deep, the dragon’s lair an unexpected lowest point in their travels, but they’re climbing now and the moods of the others seem to be lifting. When he asks Tes, she nods.

“Lettie’d heard stories about the lava lake down there,” she says. “After this there’s only a few more places to trade at and one site she wants to check and they’re all much closer to the surface.”

The surface. He suspects, soon enough, he’s going to have to make a final decision as to if he wants to stay down here, to try to find his way home, or if he’s going to stay with these people.

The decision comes rather sooner than expected.

* * *

**xxii.**  
It’s relatively early in the day’s travel as things go, their second day on a more consistently trod path. With their journey now taking them upwards they’re returning to well-worn trackways, known trade routes, even some few carven roads. This is a wilder stretch, a series of caves tunnelled together but not made much more precise when it happens. 

The male elf is sprinting back to them, spitting a warning as quickly and quietly as he can, just ahead of his sister, his strange feathered lizard scurrying close behind him, eerily silent. Usually the thing is squawking up a storm but right now the only noise from it is the clacking of it’s long talons against the stone as the elf’s sister arrives, immediately grabbing the attention of Tes, Cevelette and Atles as she explains something.

“Drow,” she says once she’s spat out the words to the others, now looking him in the eye. There’s a deadly look there, as though she half suspects him of bringing this down on them. “They’re only a little way away.”

The others are debating options, he doesn’t have to understand all the words to understand _that,_ and there’s far too many shaken heads and frowns for him to feel comfortable.

“Velkyn,” Isalanthe says in Elvish. “Big furry beast, guard. What is it?”

 _“Quaggoth,”_ he says, then, in the stilted Common he’s been learning. “Big? Hulking? Pale fur, face like a beast? Quaggoth.”

“You know what they are?” Isalanthe’s brother asks. 

Back to Elvish then. “Enslaved guards,” he says, waving a hand. “They protect matriarchs, favourites, guard captains. Ranking drow.”

Cevelette spits a curse. Isalanthe creeps back towards the corner to look out. The others - the halfling, the male elf, the tiefling now she’s spat her curse - are all hurriedly discussing options; Tesythe has pulled her shield from her back, her hand patting her component pouch before coming to rest on the hilt of the sword at her hip.

He’s not bound. He’s glad of that. He can still call to mind most of his spells, too, though they haven’t given him back his weapons or his component pouch. His replacement armour is good enough to fight in but right now there is one essential fact: he is drow. There are drow headed their way. And a _quaggoth_ meaning the party has- has at least a house captain amongst their number, likely an inquisitor or arachnomancer, perhaps even an acolyte priestess. 

They will be too much for this small group.

“Tes,” he says, reaching for her hand. He hardly has the presence of mind to remember the Elvish for this but she’s been picking up bits and pieces of Drow. _“Dosst khaless?”_ She frowns at him and he tugs her hand, trying to get the point across. _“Xaldos,”_ he says. _Please_ . _“Khaless ussa.”_

“I do not-” she says in Elvish. “Vel-”

He does not know how far the group is. He does not know how long they have. Carefully, slowly, his eyes fixed on hers, he lifts her hand to his mouth, places her fingers between his teeth. He does not bite.

 _“Khaless,”_ he says, when he removes her hand. He wracks his mind for the words in Elvish. _“Yewl-”_ He says, hesitant. _“Yewl tel’quiet hiine yrrin, Tes.”_ _Give me your faith, Tes._ He doesn’t know the Elvish for trust. _“Yewl tel’quiet_ ** _khaless,_** _Tes.”_

“I don’t-” she says in Common.

“Trust.” It’s Isalanthe and she looks shocked but also just enough like she might agree to this. “He’s asking- he’s asking for you to give him your trust. He wants you to trust him.”

Tes’ eyes widen, her gaze darts - her hand, his mouth. _“Khaless,”_ she says. Then, in Elvish. _“Avavaen, Vel._ Of course.” A pause that feels like it stretches for eternity. _“Igge.”_ It’s the word in Drow that makes him relax.

He squeezes her hands and turns to the tiefling. _“Faer,”_ he says and he’s so glad _magic_ is the same between Drow and Elvish. “Ah-” He draws a hand over his face, lifts it off like it’s a mask and then extends his hand as though to place the mask on the others. The tiefling blinks, confused. _“Vel vel’uss dos phuul.”_

 _“Nelluon,”_ the female elf says and then in Common, “Illusion.”

The tiefling says something quickly and the elfess nods, says something. The tiefling’s hands dart, sparking crimson magic spinning from her palms as she spits an incantation in Infernal. In a moment the magic settles over the others - they look like drow, Tesythe dressed especially finely, her features made more angular and elfin but still definitely her. 

It’s reassuring, even if a part of him is still not entirely sure he wants to do this and he hurries to prepare.

* * *

**xxiii.  
** _She trusts me._ The thought echoes through his mind as he organises them, mocks up the postures they should take as quickly as he can before pulling the halfling’s lizard forward and mounting it. It’s a quiet beast but unenchanted; he has to work to make it behave. Good thing he’d started out on stable duty - it’s not too much a struggle. 

Tesythe trusts him. The others trust Tesythe.

 _If you wanted,_ whispers a voice, the quiet clever one in the back of his mind, one which sounds just like _ilharess_ Baenre. _If you wanted you could betray them and only the elfess might realise in time. You could go_ **_home._ ** _You could come back to me._

That is what he realises in the scant few moments they have before they hear the footsteps of lizards and people, the heavy footfalls of the quaggoth, as he paints a proud expression on his face.

 _Yes,_ he says. _I could. If I wanted to._

His mouth frames the appropriate greeting as the drow round the bend, his hand lifted with fingers spread so as to clearly indicate no spell. He does this on autopilot; he’s acted as herald and courier enough times to know the protocols. 

_I don’t want to go home,_ he thinks, glancing back to Tes and the others. Apart from Tes, maybe none of them especially _like_ him. That hardly matters; he’s spent his whole life not being liked. But Tes is… Tes is _kind,_ she’s a master who only doles out pain when he’s done something to deserve it, not because she’s bored or because she wants to. She has never yet asked him to do something he hates; at worst she has asked him to do things he has no strong feelings on. She is a master who keeps her word.

_Ilareth._

He’s hardly aware of the tale he’s spinning but it’s got to be good, as good as any of the stories he told the slave children, as good as the lies he told the guard captain to get out of trouble, as good as every lie he’s ever told all at once, as good as all the ones he ever told _ilharess_ Baenre, to flatter her so he could avoid further hurt and harm. The words trip off his tongue, easy patterns to make as he watches the expressions he faces, alters phrases to be more like what they want to hear.

It would be easier in other circumstances, if this party didn’t have three women to it, if it had only had Tesythe, but the others are there too. Elfess Isalanthe sitting tall and proud atop her lizard, her brother stood beside her beast with a face like thunder and his small creature at his side, tiefling Cevelette louche and relaxed on her beast, Atles’ smaller stature disguised by the lizard he’s sat on as much as the illusion Cevelette has woven.

And Tesythe. The scar on her cheek and jaw turned strikingly silvery against the pitch of her illusory skin, her thick cloud of hair turned silver and threaded through with beads and bones and spiders, the ferocious determination with which she’d defeated him bright in her eyes, magic curling copper and grey-green in her palm.

She looks like a high priestess, like a queen, like a matriarch who’s faced down coups and won each time, she looks as strong as _ilharess_ Baenre ever did, but he doesn’t fear her one jot. He respects her too much for that, too truly for that. He knows, now, what she will and will not do as he could never guess for _ilharess_ Baenre. She is a ruler he can look up to, _does_ look up to, someone he’d follow willingly as he never did the matrons or priestesses and in his mind she stands over even _ilharess_ Baenre.

So he says so. _“Valsharess Tesythe of Maerimydra,”_ and he wracks his memory for every story he’s ever heard of the place until the drow they face look impressed enough he thinks they won’t try anything. 

“We have our duty,” he says. “And hosts who await our news. My lady thanks you for the entertainment but we must be on.”

It’s all bullshit but it’s good enough bullshit and the drow pass them by, even the quaggoth only sniffing curiously at Imeloch’s little beast once or twice before continuing on.

By the Seldarine light and dark he is so glad they’re travelling in opposite directions.

 _“Ilareth,”_ he says, when the party has gone. He doubts they’re wholly out of earshot. “If you permit us?”

Tesythe, he thinks, understands. _“Igge, Velkyn,”_ she says, calm and confident, but her _expression-_

He doesn’t know what to make of that expression but it sends pleasure curling in his belly, makes him lift his chin and straighten his spine, and as they ride on he feels something close to pride even as old anxieties and fears threaten to drown him and for at least a moment more he can push them away.

 _I don’t want to go back,_ he thinks again, hard against the whispering voice of _ilharess_ Baenre that lingers in the back of his mind. _I have a better master now than you ever were._

What he thinks next is close to blasphemy.

 _I have a_ **_kinder_ ** _master now than you ever were._

* * *

**xxiv.**  
“That-” Tesythe says when they are well away, a solid hours ride on. “That was-” She does not know what to call it, what to make of it, but Velkyn spun some kind of a tale and the other drow left, their huge beast following and despite Imie and Isie taking it in turns to scout backwards and ahead, there’s no trace of someone following them, no trace of anything terrible that came of letting Velkyn try to help them. _Succeed_ in helping them. “Velkyn,” she says, reaching to pat his arm. _“Well done.”_

It is not until then that she notices he is shaking, hands trembling. 

“Velkyn?”

He has been quiet since, she knows that. He had sat up straighter once they were on their way, sure and proud, but he has relaxed since, or at least, she had _thought_ he had relaxed.

She is not entirely sure, now, that he hasn’t been spending the past hour vigorously attempting to suppress a panic attack.

“Cevelette!” she calls, prepared to ask for a halt, before Velkyn’s hand darts out, grasps her wrist fiercely, so tight it almost hurts. 

_“Nau,”_ he says. _“Xaldos. Usstan orn inbau alur. Xal-”_ He draws a shaky breath. _“Xal usstan for draeval?”_

“Elvish,” she says gently. She places her free hand on his where it holds her wrist, loosening his grip. “I can’t understand you well enough yet.”

 _Nau_ she knows. _No._ _Xaldos_ \- he only occasionally uses that but it’s a compound word and contextual - _may you;_ the way he uses it here makes it closer to _please._ _Usstan_ is the self, _inbau_ is _to get_ both in the sense of to fetch and in the sense of progression. _Alur_ she doesn’t know but _orn_ means _will._ With the context, how he tries to say it as a reassurance for all his trembling, she can guess _alur._

_No. Please. I will get better._

“A moment,” he asks, Elvish soft and careful, trembling like his hand, and she supposes that explains the last part. _May I have_ she could grasp, _draeval_ was new. A moment, then, or a minute, or time, she doesn’t know the specific, just that that will be the linkage point if that’s the Elvish he’s using for it. “A moment _xaldos,_ Tesythe.”

 _“Igge Velkyn,”_ she says. _“Asanque.”_

His gaze flickers up at that, surprise writ clear behind whatever fear and panic is going on for him. 

“Tes?” Cevelette’s voice is clear and fear flickers back over Velkyn’s face, his hand clenching where it holds her wrist.

“It’s all right,” she says to him as gently as she can. “Later!” she calls back to Lettie down the line and the tiefling frowns but flicks her reins, nudging her lizard on, the ride moving again. With a jolt that almost breaks Vel’s grip on her arm, their lizards move forward together.

He doesn’t speak. His hand doesn’t let go of her wrist but it’s not as painful now - he’s trying to anchor himself, she thinks, not to cause pain. 

“It’s all right,” she says gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head vigorously, thistledown hair dancing around his face, falling loose from how it’s usually tucked back. 

“All right,” she says. “All right.”

“Later,” he says. _“Xaldos,_ Tesythe.”

“Of course,” she says. “Of course.”

He doesn’t relax. He doesn’t let go of her wrist. But he does, slowly, start to breathe easier.

* * *

**xxv.  
**There aren’t any words that come to mind as the panic recedes. He could say thank you, he supposes, but he doesn’t think he quite has the confidence for that just yet. Tesythe rides at his side, hasn’t removed her wrist from his grip and he draws a breath in, lets it out, and, gradually, his heart slows it’s race.

When he glances to Tes, the worried frown on her face eases, her lips quirk in a soft and reassuring smile.

“Better?” she asks.

“A little,” he says. He squeezes her wrist and, finally, lets go. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says. “Of course.”

This isn’t simple gratitude, his weakness here being overlooked for the help he gave before. She hadn’t been kind to him out of gratitude after he’d saved her life, she’s not about to start now, but her kindness is present nonetheless, gentle and without weight, without judgement. There’s no hint she thinks him lesser for this and where once some part of him would have whispered at the weakness of such a thing, would have assured him that anyone who had to see his weakness must know it and think less of him…

No, he doesn’t think Tes does. He doesn’t know _why,_ not for the life of him, but he doesn’t think she thinks less of him.

If anything, in moments like this, she seems more fond than usual, kindness coming from some emotional attachment he knows not what to make of. Emotional attachment has never gone well for him, chosen or otherwise, let alone the attachments he got no say in. One did not say no to the _ilharess._

And _yet-_

There is emotional attachment here, he knows it. Not just Tesythe’s strange care for him, more care than any master but the _ilharess_ ever had and more genuine than the _ilharess_ ever was. To her, he had only ever been a thing, a tool, a means to an end. To Tesythe… in some way, apparently he matters. She cares enough to want to see him well, to be concerned but never so much she’ll force him to do something he doesn’t want.

He does not entirely know what to make of these emotions, soft as an unprotected underbelly, gentle in the way of a poisoner with their soon-to-be-dead victim, careful as an assassin with their knives; he does not recognise them, cannot name them. But there is that softness to her eyes when she looks at him now, a gentleness, a sense of care that makes him feel like a bruise all over - hurt but with hope of healing.

Tender. That’s the word in Common. It’s so much more than he ever thought he might receive from anyone. So much more than he ever thought he might _feel_ for anyone. It had never been safe enough to permit such a vulnerability.

“They scared you,” Tes says gently. “Didn’t they?”

He doesn’t nod. He suspects his expression says it all anyway and Tesythe jerks her chin in a nod, jaw set. 

“You didn’t show it,” she says. “For them to have scared you that much and you not show it at all - that’s incredible, Velkyn.”

It’s praise he hardly feels worthy of, not with the lingering fear still chasing at his thoughts, and he shrugs.

“What other option was there?” he says. “If they had realised you were surface-dwellers, if they realised you were not drow, if they saw I was afraid. They would have attacked.” He risks a glance at her. “I was not about to put you in worse danger than we already all were in.”

“You could have,” she says gently. “If you wanted to go home.”

She doesn’t say it as though she expects betrayal. She says it as though it’s obvious that anyone might want to return home.

“I don’t-” he says. Stutters. “I don’t want to go home.”

He doesn’t know how to read Tesythe’s expression now. It doesn’t light up but there’s a hope to it, a warmth, something close to relief.

“I’ll talk to Lettie,” she says. “But I think she’ll let you stay with us, if you want.”

He _does_ want that. Wants this familiarity and strange comfort, the clearer knowledge of where he stands for all he knows that part of it must come from the same place as his obedience to overseers and guard captains, to _ilharess_ Baenre no matter his own feelings. 

But these people are so much kinder than they ever were and he nods.

* * *

**xxvi.  
**There are no further incidents. No more dangerous encounters. Tesythe speaks to Cevelette and thinks she shouldn’t be half as surprised as she is when the tiefling agrees to Velkyn staying on without a single ounce of fuss and they make their way back to the surface at a steady and comfortable pace. 

Velkyn gets antsier as they near the surface - she’s not sure if it’s fear of the unknown, uncertainty of his decision, or something else. Sometimes he stays close to her side but he’s taken to wandering a little more now Cevelette’s confirmed his place with them - he rides beside Isalanthe and Atles as much as he does her and takes to throwing meal scraps to Xyra, much to Imeloch’s consternation and Isalanthe’s amusement. 

“Come on, brother,” Isie says, shouldering him. “He’s saved all our lives now.”

Imeloch sticks his tongue out, shoulders his sister and starts throwing meal scraps to Xyra as well.

It’s easier going as they near the surface - this is one of Cevelette’s common routes, an access tunnel to the surface that’s well known and well guarded and so well used that most of the dangers have been killed off over the years, shrieking fungus pruned back with fire before it can even get close.

When they step out into fresh air, though, the smell of damp leaves and woodsmoke in the air, sunlight just barely warming at this time of day, it’s a delight. 

* * *

**xxvii.  
**“They don’t like him,” Isie says, when they’re finally let through the checks and out onto the streets. The outpost checks are thorough and the presence of a drow, while not unheard of, makes them antsy. Every one of the stationed guards is staring at Velkyn. For his part, Velkyn is staying close to Tesythe, two paces behind her to the right, his hand occasionally reaching to hers as though asking for reassurance, blinking in the light of even an overcast day. They’re going to have to get him a hat, she thinks. 

“They don’t have to,” she says. “He’s not their business.”

“He is,” Cevelette says. “He is a drow coming up from below. Even if it is in our company they will want to know why - if he is a slave or a prisoner or a mercenary. For all they know, he could be a spy.”

“I do not-” Common is still awkward for Velkyn but he is better by far than he was before. “I do not want to go below again. It is- it is too bright here but below was-” He cuts himself off, does not shudder, but the look on his face says it all. “I would rather stay with you.”

“You can,” Tesythe says. “Lettie already agreed.”

“I did,” Cevelette agrees. “But that will not stop the guards worrying. At least until we move on.”

With that she claps them both on the shoulder and follows where Atles and the twins are heading onward, already at the open door of the White Rose.

Inside is not quite as busy as normal but then, by Tes’ estimate it’s late morning - early enough that business isn’t yet at its peak - and the few patrons around spare them fleeting glances but for Velkyn, who gets second glances and thirds.

Atles tugs Velkyn to one side, has the others pass their packs off onto them both as they stand in a corner, as clearly harmless as possible as Imie and Isie find a seat and start playing with Xyra and Tes and Cevelette head for the bar. Malthas, at least, is a known quantity and they’re almost through all of the usual particulars - any interesting stories, if it’s the usual rooms or if they need to take different ones, before anything of particular note happens. 

“What’s goin’ on with him?” Malthas asks, nodding towards Velkyn. “You know we don’t like drow up here. Never any good.”

“He’s with us,” Cevelette says. “And he’ll behave.”

“Really.” 

“We captured him,” Cevelette says. “To be specific, Tes beat the tar out of him and after he stopped fighting back he decided he liked her enough to listen.”

“So, what, he’s your prisoner?” Malthas says, frowning. “Slave? How do you know he won’t escape or run off and cause trouble?”

“Neither,” Cevelette says. “Anymore. He’s a co-worker.”

Malthas looks sceptical and Cevelette sighs before sliding another gold across the bar to add to the stack of coin already handed over for bed and board. 

“You want an extra room for him?”

“He can stay with me,” Tes says. “You know he always does.”

Malthas raises a very expressive eyebrow. Tesythe offers back her most deadpan stare, Cevelette sighs and waves a clawed hand between them until they both blink. 

“He’ll stay with us and behave,” she says. “He’s not going to cause trouble.”

“Same suite as usual then?” Malthas asks. “Twin room for you and Atles, that small common area for the twins to Trance in, attached single for Tesythe and her pet.”

Tesythe pulls a face but Cevelette nods. 

“Fine,” Malthas says. “Just-” He glances over to where Velkyn stands by Atles, heavy packs slung over his shoulders as the two talk quietly and awkwardly. Atles’ Elvish is extremely old and rusty; Velkyn’s Common still stilted despite his efforts. “Make sure he doesn’t go walkabout on his own, all right? You know what people around here will think.”

“We’ll make sure nothing bad happens that can get traced back here,” Cevelette says, holding out a hand. “Malthas, you’d think we’d never been here before how nervous you’re acting about this. We know.”

At that, Malthas chuckles, craggy old face breaking into a smile, and he hands over the keys for their usual rooms. “Clear off,” he says. “But really. If you want your boy to stay safe, have him keep company with one of you.”

* * *

**xxviii.  
**The Rose is a familiar space for them; they make their ways upstairs and to their usual set of rooms without issue. Velkyn follows behind them all, glancing around at their surroundings as they go. Their usual rooms are claimed, everyone taking bags from Atles and Velkyn as they get settled in, Velkyn following Tesythe without much else to do. It’d concern Cevelette but that she understands altogether too well why he acts like that.

She sets her pack down, starts fishing through it. Most of the gold they’ve doled out already and everyone but for Velkyn has a fair share of what they could drag out of the damned dragons hoard but there’s one pouch she’s set aside that hasn’t been handed off yet.

When she sets it down in front of Velkyn, he stares at her.

“You worked with us,” she says. “From the dragon on. So you get pay, just like anyone else.”

He looks uncertain and she leaves him to it, settling instead on her bed to sort through her ledgers. The others, she knows, will filter downstairs; she’s no idea about Velkyn but she hopes not - she needs to talk to him properly, at least once Tesythe is gone, ideally once everyone is. 

So she settles on her bed, ledger on her pillow and pen in her hand, and tunes out the world for a while.

She’s brought back to the world by Atles’ familiar knock on the doorjamb.

“You going to join us, Lettie?” Atles is smiling as he pokes his head through the door. “Velkyn’s staying put because he doesn’t think it’s smart for him to go walkabout if the guards don’t like him but Isie wants to talk to one of the girls over at Meredyth’s and Imeloch says he saw an old friend at the bar. The rest of us were heading down to join him.”

Well, this is as good an opportunity as any. 

“I’ll stay,” she says. “I think Velkyn might need company.”

Atles’ smile dims a little and he steps inside, pushing the door too behind him. “He wants Tes’,” he says quietly. “You know he feels safer with her.”

“Yes,” she says. “But that’s not all there is to it. You remember what I was like when your aunt found me.”

“A _healfing_ wreck, is what,” Atles says before turning serious. “Yeah, I remember. Took you a while to sort your head out on if you actually liked her or if it was just the fact that she didn’t hurt you.”

“It took me six months to call her mother and I was younger than Velkyn and at least knew that kindness could be genuine sometimes. He’s much worse off than I was.” She sighs, stands, dusts her hands off. “I’m going to have a chat with him. Just to see where he’s at.”

That’s a lie, she knows exactly where he’s at. If anything the past week has only crystalised it for her. 

“Gonna try to convince him one way or the other?” he asks.

 _“No.”_ She digs clawed nails into her palms. “No. He needs to be allowed his own choice in this, just as I was, you know that.”

Atles tilts his head back to look at her and sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. All right, I’ll tell the others you’re staying put for now.”

He leaves without another word, shutting the door too and leaving her to her thoughts. It’s not long after she hears the calls of the others as they move to head downstairs, the firm _thunk_ of the door shutting behind them and it’s only then that she fishes through her pack for what she wants and heads into the main room.

Velkyn is sitting on a stool by the hearth, a book of Eilistraeean scripture in his hands.

“Going to read that?” she asks.

He startles, looking up at her with wide eyes. “P-perhaps,” he says. “But I am even worse at reading Elvish than I am speaking it.” He rises from his seat, sets the book on one of the shelves. He doesn’t say anything more, though. 

Well, there’s nothing for it really, is there?

“Here,” she says, voice gentle. In her hand is something she’d found in the dragon’s hoard, something she’d found and hidden before the others could see. He blinks at it. “It’s a Hat of Disguise,” she says. “Attune to it, disguise yourself, go walkabout. Your Elvish is good enough people won’t wonder too much about you if you wear an elvish face to talk to them and most here can speak it about as well as you do.”

He blinks again, at the hat in her hand, at her face, his expression clearly uncertain. She sighs and turns to Undercommon. Best he can understand her at the _very_ least.

“Velkyn,” she says gently. “You’ve been acting uncertain for a while now. I don’t think you’re a danger to us or I’d not have let Tesythe let you go unbound and I’d certainly not have let you walk free with us to the surface if I thought you planned to act as a spy or hurt us or betray us. But _something_ is bothering you and my best guess is that it’s whatever thing you have going on with Tes, correct?”

He blinks, swallows. _Speaks,_ thank Mystra. 

“There is nothing going on with Tes,” he says. “That is- no. I do not-”

She lifts her hands placatingly, fingers spread to show no spell. “I’m not saying that there is,” she says. “But you are uncertain and your uncertainty stems primarily from your relationship with Tes, whatever it’s nature. If I had to guess, it’s at least in part because we captured you, yes?”

His jaw sets, his eyes nothing close to the strange softness as when he looks at Tes. Instead they’re hard, like chips of pale jade. 

“I was captured too, once,” she says, gentle. His eyes narrow. “I am a _tiefling,_ Velkyn - do you think I have been kindly treated all my life? I know better than most what you’ll face living openly at the surface.” His set jaw relaxes at that, eyes returning to the ground. “I was captured too, once. You know what makes tieflings. You know the rumours of my kind. We’re often raised to evil, expected to turn to it and that was my childhood. But I was captured and, after a while, my captors treated me kindly. It is very hard to judge, then, whether whatever relationship you build with them is real - when they defeated you, captured you, can punish you if you misbehave. How can you judge if your behaviour around them is real, or just your own attempts to avoid being hurt?”

She reaches gently to take his hands, careful with her claws so they don’t catch his skin as she presses the hat into his grip. 

“You’re free, here. You’ve got money for the time you spent actively helping us, you have your things again. With this, you could run off and go your own way, if that is what you want. If that is what you need.” She lets go of his hands. He doesn’t let go of the hat. “Or, if you want, you can just wander for a little while. Find another bar to drink at. Find the local brothel, if you wanted. Just go for a walk and get some fresh air - I don’t think the night sky will be as painful for you as the day if you want to stay out for a while. Take time to think and wonder on your own and to decide what you want and how things stand. If whatever you’ve built with Tesythe is real or not.”

She steps back, hands lifted, fingers spread. No spell. Simple placation. He stares at her, uncertain.

“You can stay here, if you want. Read Eilistraeean scripture or polish your weapons or check your components. Start remaking your spellbook, if you wanted. But if you want to go for a walk, get some air and some space to think - you can. None of us are going to stop you.”

He looks at the hat in his hands. “If I use this,” he says. “They will not know to stop me.”

“I know,” she says. “That’s the point. You’re _free.”_

He has nothing to say that, nothing at all, and she turns to head for the door.

“Cevelette?” he asks. When she glances back he’s still stood in the middle of the room, uncertain. “You- what did you decide?”

She smiles with genuine warmth. “That I preferred kindness to cruelty,” she says. “Now go on. Have some time to yourself.”

* * *

**xxix.**  
The door shuts behind her. Velkyn turns the hat over in his hands - he doesn’t need all his magical skill to feel the enchantments on it - it’s as she said, a Hat of Disguise.

Whatever else Cevelette may be - strange at times and always intimidating, the one to whom the others all turn for advice and the one they all obey, even Tesythe - he doesn’t think she is malicious. She has been a tacit ally from the first, when she gave him into Tesythe’s care. 

He sits down with the hat in his lap and attunes to it. 

When, twenty-five minutes later, he leaves the room, he wears an elven face, closer in skin tone to Tesythe than the elf twins, hair closer to Atles’ straw-gold than the twins copper but within the ranges for elves, given what elves he’s seen here and those few dragged down as slaves to Menzoberranzan.

When he passes the others at the bar, they don’t even blink at him. Not even Cevelette. 

He doesn’t know what to feel about that.

It’s still bright out. If anything it’s brighter and he pulls the hat down against the glare, shading his eyes. He’d spotted a stand of trees a little way away, strange surface things he’s heard of but never had a chance to see in person and he heads for them, sticking, where he can, to the shade. 

When he reaches the trees, he thinks he sees why surface elves are said to love them so much. 

He doesn’t entirely know why Cevelette advised this. Why she would offer it to him - a chance to run. He is a slave and has been so all his life; even when _ilharess_ Baenre raised his rank he was still a _slave,_ even when they captured him and inserted him into a new rank structure he was still at the bottom. He sits at the base of a tree, tilts his head back against bark of a texture that almost reminds him of the stone below, and he thinks. 

Cevelette Brinor has said that he is free. Has _paid_ him. 

This should be simple - he has chosen to stay with these surface folk, to stay with Tesythe who makes him feel safe, who has been kinder to him than any other master he has ever served. These people who, for all Imeloch’s early dislike of him, have at least been consistent in what behaviour garners punishment and what doesn’t. They are not cruel for no reason; indeed, they are _kind_ for far less.

And yet, he knows it is not this simple. That part of this desire to stay is his own desire to be safe; the same reason he obeyed the overseer and the guard captain, why he did as _ilharess_ Baenre wanted no matter his own feelings. If one wanted to survive, one did as one was told, was only creative and independent when given clear license to be. He came up from the bottom - he knows well what every layer above expects. He knows how to play to that, how to do as told regardless of his own will and he has obeyed Tesythe because doing so keeps him safe and fed and well. Because obeying brings trust and trust brings freedoms.

It is easy to work within that system, to obey because there is no other choice, to serve in honesty because doing so makes you essential and being essential gives you special, useful treatment. 

But it is not entirely that, either. If it were only that it would be easier to leave or to stay, to decide he wanted to stay within that safety or to leave and make his own way, without any master. This is not just relief at a lack of beating, this is not simply loyalty because there is no one else to be loyal too. This is not doing as told in the hope of gaining trust to use, this is not even obedience in fear of what happens if he should disobey - Tes has allowed him to push back, has listened when he has dodged around things, when he has asked to discuss later, when he has simply not spoken at all. He has disobeyed and seen no punishment, because what he did has helped.

They’ve allowed him freedoms from very early on, in truth. Were it anyone else, were they _drow_ he’d have suspected it a power play, a show that it matters not what freedoms he has because they hold the power. 

But never so with them. They gave him certain freedoms - reliable meals, healing for his hands, a blanket to kneel to Trance on - simply because it didn’t occur to them that those things should or could be denied.

Cevelette is not wrong. There is something that has bothered him, something he has tucked to one side because below was not the place to have any kind of crisis.

This path he has chosen, he has chosen because Tesythe is kind. And yet: Tesythe has always been in a position to be kind. Has been brutal when need be, yes - when she has decided she need be - but she has always had the power, has been able to choose when and how to be kind and if that is the case, is it truly kindness? Is it kindness she has shown, or is it simply generosity? Simply an attempt to win him over because, while she had the power, she could do that.

He does not think so - not intentionally, not Tesythe. But does that change a thing, in the end, if his attachment to her has come because of that kindness that she was in a position to give when she chose. She has hardly denied him kindness, yes, as long as he has behaved but that is it, isn’t it? She was kind so he behaved so she was kind and so he continued to behave. Or - he behaved and so she was kind and so he continued to behave and she has continued to be kind. 

Is this his choice, or is it the one which makes sense, because then he will still be shown kindness?

But no. He has disobeyed. He has acted first. He has placed Tesythe’s hand between his teeth because he knew no better way to convey trust than to have the opportunity to bite and to refrain. She has still shown kindness.

Cevelette has offered him the means to run away. He doesn’t know if she expects him to - her answer to his question didn’t tell him what she did. Only that she preferred kindness to cruelty. 

Is it cruel to stay with these people, for them to think him free and unafraid when he is still so uncertain? Or is it kindness to seek what he has come to know and find a comfort? Or, would it be cruel to leave, or would it be kinder to leave them rather than forever second guess them?

To second guess is all he’s really known. To second guess is what he’s had to do with everyone, from overseer to _ilharess._

But not Tesythe.

Perhaps that would be the cruelty. To second guess her when, from the start, she has only ever been honest. When she has stated her intentions clearly every time and never hidden what she means. 

In which case, kindness would be to trust. To trust Tesythe’s own kindness, to trust Isalanthe’s humour and Imeloch’s scowls and Atles’ stilted attempt at friendship, to trust Cevelette Brinor who has said that he is free. 

And if he is to trust these people then… he is free. He can choose for himself, not try to balance whatever expectations they may or may not have for him but choose, instead, what he wants. 

And Velkyn chooses to return to the others.

* * *

  
**xxx.**  
When he sits down beside Tesythe, removes the hat and startles her to jumping, startles laughs from the twins, a half-hacked cackle from Atles, it feels like Tesythe’s smiles - it feels almost warm.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone curious the core characters are:
> 
> \- **Velkyn** of no family of name, slave to House Baenre. If you're wondering at his spells, I basically gave him a cutdown version of the Drow Favoured Consort statblock - he's not as tough as one and he doesn't have the full spell list but he's no slouch.  
> \- **Tesythe Carella** \- Human Eldritch Knight  
> \- **Cevelette Brinor** \- Tiefling Illusion Wizard Merchant and head of the adventuring company. “Lettie” to her friends.  
> \- **Atles Brunning** \- Halfling Trickery Domain Cleric; wants to become a brewer. His aunt adopted Cevelette.  
> \- **Imeloch Auglathla** \- Twin brother to Isalanthe, below. Beastmaster Ranger. “Imie” to his friends.  
> \- **Isalanthe Auglathla** \- Twin sister to Imeloch, above. Assassin Rogue; “Isie” to her friends.  
> \- **Xyra** \- Imeloch’s velociraptor companion.
> 
> So many thanks to [This Drow Dictionary](https://tuelean.redbrick.dcu.ie/Junk/Drow-Dictionary.pdf) and [This Elvish One](https://freepdfhosting.com/5f6a747504.pdf). There are whole conversations in this I'd have had to bullshit without them.
> 
> Please leave comments!


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